


All Things Come

by Brate



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Friendship, Gen, Injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-24
Updated: 2012-01-24
Packaged: 2017-10-30 01:41:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/326361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brate/pseuds/Brate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson waits.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All Things Come

John Watson is lying on a hospital bed, waiting for another doctor to come and tell him his career is over. He won't be able to perform surgery with a bum arm. 

He shouldn't be bitter. He is surrounded by dozens of men and women who have lost more than he has—their limbs…their lives.

Except he can't be grateful he's still alive. Not when the cost seems so high.

***

John Watson is standing next to a window, waiting to be sent back to England. He has no idea what he is going to do once he's home. 

He watches the planes take off; his leg is killing him. He should sit, but if he does, that is as good as admitting there is a problem. 

He finally has no choice and goes to find a chair.

***

John Watson is sitting at a desk, staring at a blank computer screen, waiting…for something. 

At sporadic intervals, his eyes jump to the side, checking the time. It never seems to move fast enough.

He sighs.

Reaching for his cane, John brings it to him and stands shakily. Maybe he will take yet another walk through the park. Waste some of his _precious_ time.

***

John Watson is standing out of the way, waiting for Sherlock to show off his brilliance.

At the bottom of a set of stairs lies a young woman, body broken and mangled. The coroner wanted to call it suicide, but Lestrade had a hunch, and called in the consulting detective. 

"Clearly she was murdered," Sherlock is saying. "From the way she is sprawled, she had more momentum than a simple fall would explain."

John exchanges a look with the detective inspector. 

Sherlock races up the stairs, eyes darting every which way. He kneels at the top, studying the floor, before moving over to the railing. Leaning close, he takes a sniff, then sticks out his tongue and licks the wood. Within seconds, he is running down the stairs, jumping over the body, and sprinting out the door. 

With a hurried goodbye, John takes off after him, not wanting to be left behind. He catches up to Sherlock as he hails a cab on a nearby corner.

"Where are we going?" John asks as he climbs in behind Sherlock.

"It was unmistakably her cousin that caused her demise," Sherlock says, giving the cab driver an address on the other side of London.

"Don't you think we ought to have informed the police?"

"No time, no time." Sherlock brushes his concerns aside. "If we wait any longer, the murderer's father—the victim's uncle—will have his daughter ensconced on the private family jet and on her way to a country with no extradition treaty. It would take far too long for Lestrade to get the proper clearances."

"But— How— Never mind." 

Sherlock arches a brow as if to say, are you _sure_ you don't want to hear how magnificent I am?

John just shakes his head and checks that his pistol is secure. He leans forward, taps the cabbie on the shoulder, and tells him to hurry.

***

John Watson is no longer waiting.

Now he is doing.


End file.
